When he was young, Quinn’s mother had seen the direction life was taking him and implored him to “be kind,” but his father had pulled him aside for a little deeper counsel. While not exactly going against his wife’s admonition for kindness, the elder Quinn had explained to both his sons that there were those on whom kindness did not work. “Dig deep,” he had said. “Get inside yourself and find that part of you that makes anyone who happens to look in your direction want to do nothing but escape.” It was good advice and Quinn had taken it to heart.
“Got a match,” the nearest homeless man mumbled around a dangling hand-rolled cigarette as Quinn walked by with his arm around Song, still playing the part of a vacationing couple.
Quinn had bought a packet of two disposable lighters as soon as they’d arrived at the hotel lobby, in keeping with his habit to carry a knife, a light, and something to make fire with at all times — even if he didn’t have a gun. Years of experience in surveillance and investigation had taught him that the homeless were often ignored and overlooked, making them a wealth of information as long as they weren’t alienated.
Quinn tossed the guy one of the lighters. “Keep it,” he said.
Song laughed softly. “You are an interesting person,” she said. “I would have expected you to stare a dagger into him and you decide to be nice.”
“I’m not nice.” Quinn shrugged. “Just practical. We’re operating in their backyard. Best to stay on their good side.”
The homeless man waved in thanks and lit the cigarette, blowing a huge plume of smoke into the darkness. A bright beam of laser light pierced the cloud an instant before a red dot tracked across Song’s chest.
Quinn dove sideways, pushing her toward the cover of the backhoe. Chips of concrete flew through the air. Metal clanked and sparks flew as bullets from at least one suppressed weapon stitched the side of the machine. The homeless men dove for cover, upending their shopping cart as they scrambled for the nearest concrete column.
Quinn drew the Sig Sauer he’d taken from Lok and did a quick peek around the side of the backhoe’s thick boom. More shots pinged off the metal.
“I count two of them,” Quinn said, glancing over his shoulder to check on Song. He heard an odd metal squeak, almost a groan, and turned in time to see the shadow of a heavy length of chain arcing directly at him from high on the scaffolding. The blow threw Quinn fifteen feet, flipping him into the air and slamming him into the security fence like a baseball against a backstop. He slid to the ground with a sickening thud, completely still.
Chapter 56
Jacques Thibodaux unfolded his right leg and stretched it into the narrow aisle, trying to regain some semblance of circulation, and resigned himself to the fact that the other leg was just plain doomed. He knew a man of his bulk should really buy two seats, but thankfully Emiko Miyagi had decided to sit beside him. Tough as a leather boot, Miyagi was small enough they didn’t fight over the armrest and play dueling shoulders for the entire five-hour flight out of Reagan National.
Thibodaux fished the cell phone out of his pocket as the plane settled in over the runway, turning it on before the tires squawked on the asphalt.
He tried Quinn twice and got nothing.
“The boy’s gone dark,” he muttered half to himself.
“I will call Palmer-san as soon as we’re off the plane,” Miyagi said. “You can try him again then.”
“I got a bad feeling,” Thibodaux said. “If I don’t get ahold of him pretty damn soon, I say we head straight to Big Uncle’s party and start crackin’ heads.”
Miyagi turned slowly in her seat and raised a thin black brow. Endowed with what Jacques called “relaxed bitchy face”—at least when it came to their relationship — the Japanese woman was so stoic it was sometimes painful to talk to her. “Crack heads?” she said.
“That’s what I’m sayin’,” Jacques said.
“For once, Thibodaux-san,” Miyagi said, “we are in complete agreement.”
Chapter 57
Quinn woke unable to move anything but a back tooth. A throbbing jaw told him he was still alive and with a little effort, he was able to spit out the loose molar. It landed with a tink on the porcelain that pressed against his face, mixing with the slurry of water and what appeared to be his blood.
He held his breath, straining to hear over the whoosh of his own pulse that convulsed in his ears. A constant drip tapped at the porcelain and a hollow gurgle came from some kind of drain near his feet. He blinked his eyes, bringing the grime ring of a decrepit bathtub into view, a few inches from his nose. About this same time, he realized his ankles were bound with duct tape and his hands were trussed behind his back. It occurred to him that the gurgling was caused as much by his blood draining away as it was the dripping water.
Quinn caught a bit of conversation over the top of the tub and turned his head to try to get a better angle. The movement brought a fresh gush of blood down his face and a stab of pain that arced from his shoulder blades to the small of his back. He had the fleeting notion that he might have broken his spine, but decided there was nothing he could do about it if he had. This was definitely one of those times his father had warned him about when it was better to fight through the objective and die in the assault than lie around and wait to be killed. Bound and tossed bleeding into a grimy tub — the outcome did not look promising. Quinn had found himself in worse predicaments, but not many.
Straining through the searing pain in his neck, he did a half sit-up to look at his feet. He had little feeling there, but as he suspected, they were bare and wrapped at the ankles with several turns of duct tape. On his back, Quinn lifted his legs and touched the mouth of the ancient faucet with his toe, feeling the years of mineral deposits even through the numbness. It was rough and jagged, crusting the lip of the faucet enough that by hooking his ankles under the spout and pulling toward his head, he was able to cut the tape.
Feet free, he collapsed into the tub from the effort, and tried to make sense of the voices coming from the other room. Some were brassy and scripted and Quinn recognized it as a Chinese-language television drama. The other voices grew more animated and spoke in rapid-fire Chinese.
“… and you thought it wise to bring them here?” A male voice dripped with derision.
“You forget your place, Jiàn Zŏu,” another voice said, also Chinese but with a heavy Turkic accent. The man in charge — this one had to be Ehmet Feng.
“You could not have just killed them and been done with it?”
“What is it to you?” Ehmet said. “We have time. I want to work on this one a little, see what she knows. Go ahead and kill the other one if you want. He’s almost dead anyway. I plan to take my time here.”
“There are others with us!” It was Song’s voice, panting and tightly drawn. “They will arrive at any moment.”
Quinn felt his heart race with silly hope. As long as she was alive, there was a chance.
“Ha!” Ehmet’s voice dropped so low Quinn could barely hear him. “You have severely misjudged the situation.”
“Yaqub Feng!” Song said, her voice frantic. “It is not too late to walk away. You are much too smart—”
Quinn heard a loud slap as someone, presumably Ehmet, shut her up. Song growled, fighting through the pain of the blow.